Confirmation
by Ellyndia McGovern III
Summary: A devoted student pays last respects.. occurs after "A Visit to St. Mungo's"....new version
1. Confirmation New

NOTE: I'm reposting this because, frankly, I hated the first version. I was working for readers, and not myself. It came out too soon...so let's try this scene again. Chapter Two is the original.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recongnize.

Confirmation

This occurs after the events in "A Visit To St. Mungo's." Please read that one before reading this. The story will make more sense.

_" 'Don't let them cut my hand off --  
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!'  
But the hand was gone already...."_  
Robert Frost, _"Out, Out--"_

The sky is dark and dreary; the rain accentuates the priest's low pitch, each raindrop pattering against my umbrella.  
The ground is slighly soggy, and I move a bit to prevent my heels from sinking into the ground. The coldness which permeates the air is not a light cold or even a heavy one; it is a paralyzing cold, a sickening cold, a cold which saps away my strength with every breath of the wind.  
I do not miss the irony of my wearing all black.  
Sure, I am in respectable Muggle dress -- the funeral was held close to a Muggle cemetary, it was a necessary deception-- but even as I hold my umbrella and rewrap my shawl around my shoulders, I try not to imagine someone magical in the human-sized mahogany box in the hole at my feet.  
There are only two other people here: the priest, the obligatory religous figure in the burecratic office that is death, and another person who I do not know, who stands on the same side of the hole as me, a faceless shade, brought here by their own un-forgiven duty. Perhaps they want to sleep tonight.  
I keep my eyes on the casket as the thunder rolls and the lightening strikes a nearby tree as the priest starts his litany of woe:  
"Today we are here to mourn the passing of Severus Adolphus Snape..."  
My eyes unfocus as the storm blows on, out of control. I wonder for not the last time why I have kept up a silent vigil for his lost soul.  
I recall that it is only a chance encounter which brought me to duty; it is at night mostly that I wonder if I had not pressed the wrong button five years ago in the excitement to visit my mother, I would not have seen his convulsing body pass; I would not have listened to the rushing Healers wheeling him to his final destination; I would not have heard the name of Snape, and I would not be here today, risking pnuemonia for a teacher that I hated more than admired. It is no surprise that I think of this now, because the clouds blocked out the sun, and the only true light is the harsh lightening which never gets too close to our position.  
Some atone to fate -- I can only atone my devotion to this dying (now dead) god in the sea of darkness to destiny. Whether fate and destiny are the same, I don't care. For the first time that day, I am forced to clear my mind of all emotion when I realize gods can die....  
"...may he rest in peace. Amen."  
The priest closes the Bible, departs from the picture. I stand there for a moment, not really believing Professor Snape was dead, living in a daze of emotion so thick the face is confused.  
The thunder booms again, not out of anger, but out of impatience. I imagine that the sound says "Get out of the rain, you foolish people! You'll catch your death if you stay out any longer!" I looked up, almost knowing that thunder cannot speak, form coherant words and syntax, and have his voice...  
And I see the other member of the congregation, watching as the Muggle gravediggers cover the remains of my Potions professor.  
I take a step toward the person. He is dressed also in all black, as is accustomed to dealing with death. I notice too that the Muggle outfit is complete -- this was someone who has had practice in deception.  
He kept his eyes on the grave as he spoke first.  
"I didn't think any one else would come."  
"Neither did I." I said. I turned to the lost soul and held out my hand.  
"I'm Ellyndia McGovern."  
"Harry Potter."  
We shake and I could not believe that he was here.  
"So-" he asked me, purely out of politeness, I could tell, he was in the midst of his own conflicting emotions, "How did you know Professor Snape?"  
"He was my teacher," I said.  
Harry looked up at me, the raindrops textualizing his glasses and making his pupils distorted.  
"When did you graduate?" he asked.  
"1997."  
His eyes got bigger. "That's when I graduated. But...I don't remember seeing you around. What House were you in?"  
"Slytherin." I looked to the grave where the body of Professor Snape was now under three feet of dirt.  
"That's why I'd never seen you."  
I smiled a smile, I don't know why, and looked at a distant tree blowing in the wind.  
"I wonder what he would have said if I was conversing with one of his Slytherins?" Harry asked, and I kept the idiotic smile on.  
My grief escaped from me in the form of a harsh laugh which escaped my lips and rang the countryside; it shook the air harder than the heaviest gale could; the wind, perhaps out of shock, stopped for a moment. The two Muggles looked at me for a second -- I could read their looks ---  
(scandalizing)  
(blasphemous)  
"He would say: 'Fraternizing with someone from Slytherin House, Potter? 10 points from Gryffandor.' "  
"That sounds about right." He smiled also, and I hoped his hurt as much as my deceptive merriment hurt me.  
It continued to rain as we watched the gravediggers fill in the hole. We did not speak a word until the final pat pat pat of the shovel and the departing of the two Muggles.  
_So that's it._ I thought. _I'm relieved of duty. A duty that I was forced into by the crossroads of destiny\fate, but one I've...grown to love? Grown to hate? Grown to depend on?_  
My stomach clenched, and suddenly I wanted to leave, leave this heinous reminder of the past, leave the source of my hidden pain for five years which now scarred the countryside.  
I turned to leave, but I hear a voice of protest.  
"Ellyndia, wait."  
I turn and see Harry looking at me.  
"Do you want to get coffee?"  
For a second I thought he was crazy; then he made perfect sense.  
"Sure."  
"We can talk about...."  
"Yes."  
He held out his hand, and we Apperated to a small alleyway. When we emerged, I could see the familar sign:  


The Leaky Cauldron

We entered; it was full of customers taking shelter from the rain. We order coffee and retreat to one of the private rooms in the tavern. As we walk past groups of happy, boisterous people -- lost in their materialistic whirlwind lives, I almost ask a young couple whether they too had a secret scar, caused by fate, not desired but mainly dumped onto their laps. Does it leave them to pay the hospital bills as it heals haphazardly, never fully going away? As the male tells a joke and the female laughs, I wonder if they got plastic surgery.  
Both of us sit down, and neither of us speaks. I can feel a tear emerge: maybe I was crazy going to coffee with someone I only knew by name; crazy, for going to a bar when I had chores to do at home; crazy for believing that I would be level-headed enough to carry on a conversation when all I really wanted to do was cry.  
We sit like that for about ten minutes, and I wonder what Professor Snape did to save the man in front of me; still a bit like a boy in build, but I didn't need to talk to him to know he was mature beyond his 23 years.  
"So," I finally asked him, "how did you find out about his funeral?"  
"The nurse at St. Mungo's sent me an owl," he said.  
He looked like he wanted to say something but stopped himself before he did. He took a sip, and I understood.  
"So I thought, 'might as well pay my respects'...you?"  
I chuckled, ever so briefly and ever so quietly. There was no mirth in it whatsoever.  
"Actually, mine was a bit more urgent...."  
_I hear the flash of fire, turn around in my chair, see who it is.  
"Miss McGovern?" the face in the fire speaks. It is the face from St. Mungo's, the nice Healer from the Closed Ward.  
"Yes? What is it? What's wrong?" I close my book, forgetting to put a placemark in it. "Is he......"  
"I'm afraid so." The fire can only gives the illusion of consolation; I don't know whether its the illusion of the flames or whether the person is generally heart-felt for her hopeless patient.  
"I'm sorry. It was just after you left today. He breathed one last shallow breath, closed his eyes, and well...died."  
I could see what might have been a tear in the vision's face; I quickly turned away and there is a resurgence of the tears and the anger from the afternoon.  
"Now dear," I hear the image consol, "Severus has gone to a better place-"  
"DON'T CALL HIM THAT!" I screamed, whirling around to the fire, shocking the face, shocking myself into a frenzied behavior.  
"Dear, do calm down-"  
"I WILL WHEN YOU CALL HIM BY HIS RIGHTFUL NAME!"  
Even as I turn again, back to the warm fire, I wonder why does such an unimportant person in my life warrent such an outbreak?  
"The funeral is Sunday at 4 pm in the cemetary at Cornwall," the vision says. With a final "I'm sorry for your loss," the vision fades, and I am left alone._  
"So here I am," I said, taking a sip of the hot coffee, which burns my tongue but I don't care.  
"Why did you go though?" he asked. "I don't mean to sound rude, but what did Professor Snape ever do for you?"  
I waved a hand to dismiss the issue. "Its no problem," I said. "But...I really don't know why. I was merely trying to complete my education in the midst of.... your stuff. Its not like he saved my life or anything...."  
Harry raised his hand to rub at the place his now extinct scar once held residency. A question struck me--  
"Why did you not come visit him?"  
"Visit him--well..."  
"What- did you want to push him out of your head, hoping that if you never see him he'll go away? Did you hate him that much, Harry? Or do you not value your own life enough to appreciate his sacrifice?" _I wish I had thought of that--_  
"I-i-i do, I mean-"  
_--But I suppose I have a conscience._  
"He _died_ for you," I said.  
"No, that was the effect of the Legimens-"  
"He died the _second_ he got hit with those two Legimens!"  
There was a cold pause.  
"I thought he was merely incapaciated-"  
"He was _insane_, Harry." I spat out, savagely, not caring how I looked or if I broke his feelings. The word hung in the room like an unwanted relative.  
"You didn't see him," I said to Harry, unfurling my hot rage like a tidal wave. "Day in, day out, staring at the white ceiling of the Closed Ward of St. Mungo's for five years. He was nothing but a _husk_ of a man."  
I pulled my sleeve up and daubbed my eyes.  
"I didn't know that," Harry said, quietly.  
"Of course not- you were busy, living off your victory, living off the royalties to the books and movies that were made in your name--"  
"Ellyndia-"  
"--and you know what? I read those stupid books, I watched those stupid films, and not once, not once did you mention Professor Snape and what he did."  
Harry spoke slowly." Look-- I had to --"  
"Do what? Keep Professor Snape out of it?"  
"Yes."  
"Why?"  
Again, the ever powerful word of why chilled the room.  
"Its the way he would have wanted it." He stirred his coffee with a spoon, and added a bit of milk.  
_....Really? Was the Professor that protective? I didn't know-- Harry saw him outside the classroom more often that I, knew more about his outside life of being a teacher....was he that image conscious...._  
Frusterations over misconceptions, anger over his stupidity, I leaned over the table, over the steaming coffee where I felt the hot steam hit my face. I made no effort to pull my hair back-- it hung over the coffee, draping around the coffee, but not actually getting into the cup.  
"Did you know what his last words were? 'I saved Potter.' He admitted it."  
Potter was taken aback at the news.  
"He-he did?"  
"You're damn right he did." I said, not hiding my anger, feeling a tear emerge yet again. "All he wanted was the truth, Harry, and if he had known what you did--"  
"I was forced, okay!" He looked at me too with eyes filled with an inner hatred, a hatred planted by himself, directed toward himself, cultivated by some inner standard created by our potions instructor.  
"When I came out, so many people were hounding me on all sides, pressuring me to so many things....and well, my emotions were fazed -- and knowing Snape--"  
"_Professor_ Snape." I corrected.  
"Well, knowing him as I did, I figured he would have appreciated not having his name plastered all over the papers, dragged in the mud with mine....I mean, he did hate me so much."  
There was a silence, and for a moment I regreted my harsh action. We sat there in silence, the mutual silence of misery, because as much as he claims to hate Professor Snape, and as much as I denied his importance in my life, we had both been hit, hard, by his death.  
The sad thing was that we probably were the only ones.  
Suddenly I understood the meaning of the old saying "Misery loves company."  
So what did I do?  
I stood up to leave, leave perhaps the only person who came closest to undersanding my....conundrum.  
As I moved to open the door, I stopped. I turned and looked at Harry, nursing his coffee, looking every bit tormented as I felt.  
"It was the last thing he ever said, Harry," I said, and I could see those green eyes look up at me with...expectancy?  
"And because of the effort I saw him take to say it, I think he wanted people to know. Whether you choose to tell people or not, I don't care. But I don't think Professor Snape would have told me if he didn't want the truth known."  
I gripped the doorknob.  
"But seeing as I am only a devoted former student, I could not and will not tell the world about something concerning...you. It is your choice."  
_Choice_, I scoff inwardly. _I should go into comedy, I'm so funny. I'm so funny it _hurts.  
"It was nice meeting you, Harry. I'll pay for my half of the room out front."  
With a final nod from Harry, I turned the handle and entered the loud boisterous tavern, payed for my half, and left.  
I suppose with all the tragedy I had suffered over the past few days would warrant therapy. But death is a part of life; they are incorporated in each other's definitions, much like truth is embedded in the essence of deception. To go to therapy over a death would be like going to therapy for life -- and I thought myself a bit stronger than that.  
I walked down the street, not putting up my umbrella, and tightened my shawl, bracing against the cold wind.

THE END

How do you feel about the new version? Which do you prefer? What freaked you out? What was so funny that it couldn't be true? Any feedback is appreciated.

Don't forget to email me at mssnape_34@yahoo.com 

Notes:  
I want to thank Emu who reviewed "A Visit to St. Mungo's" and suggested this plot. I thought "A Visit to St. Mungo's" would be a one-shot. Guess not.

The lines: "the thunder rolls and the lightening strikes" and "as the storm blows on, out of control" are lyrics in Garth Brooks' "The Thunder Rolls." I am not a fan, but I thought the music itself set the tone of the piece very nicely, though the lyrics have nothing to do with my story. And listening to the song repeat as I wrote helped me with some of the more interesting images....

And thanks to Sarah, who introduced to me the concept of locution. 


	2. Confimation Original

Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recongnize.

This occurs after the events in "A Visit To St. Mungo's." Please read that one before reading this. The story will make more sense.

Confirmation

_"...One crossing with hurried tread  
The body of one of their dead  
Isn't given a moment's arrest--  
Seems not even impressed..."  
Robert Frost,_ Departmental

The sky was dark and dreary; the rain accentuated the priest's low pitch, each raindrop pattering against my umbrella.  
The ground is slighly soggy, and I move a bit to prevent my heels from sinking into the ground. The coldness which permeates the air is not a light cold or even a heavy one; it is a paralyzing cold, a sickening cold, a cold which saps away my strength with every breath of the wind.  
I do not miss the irony of my wearing all black.  
Sure, I am in respectable Muggle dress -- the funeral was held close to a Muggle cemetary. But even as I hold my umbrella and rewrap my shawl around my shoulders, I try not to imagine someone in the human-sized mahogany box in the hole at my feet.  
There are only two other people here: the priest, the obligatory religous figure in the burecratic office that is death, and another person who I do not know, who stands on the same side of the hole as me, a faceless shade, brought here by their own un-forgiven duty. Perhaps they want to sleep tonight.  
I keep my eyes on the casket as the thunder rolls and the lightening strikes a nearby tree as the priest starts his litany of woe:  
"Today we are here to mourn the passing of Severus Adolphus Snape..."  
My eyes unfocus as the storm blows on, out of control. I wonder for not the last time why I have kept up a silent vigil for his lost soul.  
I recall that it is only a chance encounter which brought me to duty; it is at night mostly that I wonder if I had not pressed the wrong button five years ago in the excitement to visit my mother, I would not have seen his convulsing body pass; I would not have listened to the rushing Healers wheeling him to his final destination; I would not have heard the name of Snape, and I would not be here today, risking pnuemonia for a teacher that I hated more than admired.  
But I suppose history is full of I-would-have's.  
Some atone to fate -- I can only atone my devotion to this dying (now dead) god in the sea of darkness to destiny. Whether fate and destiny are the same, I don't care. For the first time that day, I am forced to clear my mind of all emotion when I realize gods can die....  
"...may he rest in peace. Amen."  
The priest closes the Bible, departs from the picture. I stand there for a moment, not really believing Professor Snape was dead, living in a daze of emotion so thick the face is confused and lets none of them out.  
The thunder booms again, not out of anger, but out of impatience. I imagine that the sound says "Get out of the rain, you foolish people! You'll catch your death if you stay out any longer!" I looked up, almost knowing that thunder cannot speak, form coherant words and syntax, and have Snape's voice...  
And I see the other member of the congregation, watching as the Muggle gravediggers cover the remains of my Potions professor.  
I take a step toward the person. He is dressed also in all black, as is accustomed to dealing with death. I notice too that the Muggle outfit is complete -- this was someone who has had practice in deception.  
He kept his eyes on the grave as he spoke first.  
"I didn't think any one else would come."  
"Neither did I." I said. I turned to the lost soul and held out my hand.  
"I'm Ellyndia McGovern."  
"Harry Potter."  
We shake and I could not believe that he was here.  
"So-" he asked me, purely out of politeness, I could tell, he was in the midst of his own conflicting emotions, "how did you know Professor Snape?"  
"He was my teacher," I said.  
Harry looked up at me, the raindrops textualizing his glasses and making his pupils very distorted.  
"When did you graduate?" he asked.  
"1997."  
His eyes got bigger. "That's when I graduated. But...I don't remember seeing you around. What House were you in?"  
"Slytherin." I looked to the grave where the body of Professor Snape was now under three feet of dirt.  
"That's why I'd never seen you."  
I smiled a smile, I don't know why, and looked at a distant tree blowing in the wind.  
"I wonder what he would have said if I was conversing with one of his Slytherins?" Harry asked, and I kept the idiotic smile on, but started to cry inside.  
My grief exploded from me in the form of a harsh laugh which escaped my lips and rang the countryside; it shook the air harder than the heaviest gale could; the wind, perhaps out of shock, stopped for a moment. The two Muggles looked at me for a second -- I could read their looks ---  
(scandalizing)  
(blasphemous)  
"He would say: 'Fraternizing with someone from Slytherin House, Potter? 10 points from Gryffandor.' "  
"That sounds about right." He smiled also, and I hoped his hurt as much as my deceptive merriment hurt me.  
It continued to rain as we watched the gravediggers fill in the hole. We did not speak a word until the final pat pat pat of the shovel and the departing of the two Muggles. I surveyed the outcome of the project with the critical eye of one analyizing a machine....or concoting a potion. He might not have had a perfect life, but I was determined that he would have a perfect grave.  
My stomach clenched, and suddenly I wanted to leave, leave this heinous reminder of the past, leave the source of my hidden pain for five years which now scarred the countryside.  
I turned to leave, but I hear a voice of protest.  
"Ellyndia, wait."  
I turn and see Harry looking at me.  
"Do you want to get coffee?"  
For a second I thought he was crazy; then he made perfect sense.  
"Sure."  
"We can talk about...."  
The subject of our talks remains unspoken, but we both know.  
He held out his hand, and we Apperated to a small alleyway. When we emerged, I could see the familar sign:  


The Leaky Cauldron

We entered: it was full of customers taking shelter from the rain. We order coffee and retreat to one of the private rooms in the tavern.  
Both of us sit down, and neither of us speaks. I can feel a tear emerge: maybe I was crazy going to coffee with someone I only knew by name; crazy, for going to a bar when I had chores to do at home; crazy for believing that I would be level-headed enough to carry on a conversation when all I really wanted to do was cry.  
We sit like that for about ten minutes, and I wonder what Snape did to save the man in front of me; still a bit like a boy in build, but I didn't need to talk to him to know he was mature beyond his 23 years.  
"So," I finally asked him, "how did you find out about his funeral?"  
"The nurse at St. Mungo's sent me an owl," he said.  
He looked like he wanted to say something but stopped himself before he did. He took a sip, and I understood.  
"So I thought, 'might as well pay my respects'...you?"  
I chuckled, ever so briefly and ever so quietly. There was no mirth in it whatsoever.  
"Actually, mine was a bit more urgent...."

_I hear the flash of fire, turn around in my chair, see who it is.  
"Miss McGovern?" the face in the fire speaks. It is the face from St. Mungo's, the nice Healer from the Closed Ward.  
"Yes? What is it? What's wrong?" I close my book, forgetting to put a placemark in it. "Is he......"  
"I'm afraid so." The fire can only gives the illusion of consolation; I don't know whether its the illusion of the flames or whether the person is generally heart-felt for her hopeless patient.  
"I'm sorry. It was just after you left today. He breathed one last shallow breath, closed his eyes, and well...died."  
I could see what might have been a tear in the visions's face; I quickly turned away and there is a resurgence of the tears and the anger from the afternoon.  
"Now dear," I hear the image consol, "Severus has gone to a better place-"  
"DON'T CALL HIM THAT!" I screamed, whirling around to the fire, shocking the face, shocking myself into a frenzied behavior.  
"HE IS AND FOREVER WILL BE PROFESSOR SNAPE!"  
Even as I turn again, back to the warm fire, I wonder why does such an unimportant person in my life warrent such an outbreak?  
"The funeral is Sunday at 4 pm in the cemetary at Cornwall," the vision says. With a final "I'm sorry for your loss," the vision fades, and I am left alone._

"So here I am," I said, taking a sip of the hot coffee, which burns my tongue but I don't care.  
"Why did you go though?" he asked. "I don't mean to sound rude, but what did Professor Snape ever do for you?"  
I waved a hand to dismiss the issue. "Its no problem," I said. "But...I really don't know why. I was merely trying to complete my education in the midst of.... your stuff. Its not like he saved my life or anything...."  
Harry raised his hand to rub at the place his now extinct scar once held residency.  
"Do you know he was insane?" I asked.  
"He was?"  
"Yes...ever since 1997."  
"How do you know?"  
"Fate." I swirled the black coffee in its cup. "I visited him twice a year in St. Mungo's since I got out of school."  
I closed my eyes and willed myself to hide the emotion- I had to remain objective to get the information I wanted.  
"You know," Harry said, "we're no longer in Houses- so you can stop being a typical Slytherin and directly ask me what you want to know."  
"I wasn't-"  
"Ellyndia, you were. You are not being sneaky to spare my feelings; enough people have done that over the past five years. You are being sneaky because you don't want to confirm whatever opinion you had of me, or Voldemort, or even Snape."  
The pause was maddening. He was right: why was I hiding my information?  
"_Professor_ Snape." I corrected.  
"Am I right?" he asked.  
"Yes," I said.  
"Then fire away." He took a drink and waited. I could not believe how perceptive he had become. But the nawing question came up, and I had to look to the only window in the room.  
I used to like it when it rains, I thought. I had always hoped that I would die listening to the rain...  
Eyes still on the window, I asked the question--  
"How did Professor Snape save your life?"  
"When, in our first year? I thought everyone knew- he muttered the countercurse while Quirrel-"  
"I'm not talking about that. I'm talking five years ago."  
I did not see Harry's reaction, nor did I want to. But I knew that I touched a nerve when Harry spoke in a slightly strangled voice.  
"Who told you about that?"  
"He did," I said, my eyes loving how the haze of water in the air blurred the crisp distinctions between tree and house, person and sky.  
"He confessed it?"  
"Yes," I said, tearing away from the window and looking straight into Harry Potter's eyes. For a while, our voices run in cacophany, each one running a counter melody which seems to have no theme, just a rambling of facts and emotions:  
"I never told anyone it was Snape who saved me-"  
"-You called it 'a dark stranger' in the papers-"  
"-The only other people who knew were Voldemort, and he's dead-"  
"-And after this 'dark stranger' traded a few words with Voldemort, they dueled-"  
"-And Dumbledore, he knew, but he's dead also -"  
"-You just say 'dueled', you don't say, _hiccup,_ excuse me, 'ripped apart by two Legilmens-' "  
"-and I didn't even tell Hermione or Ron, they still don't know-"  
"-and so the spells hit him and he passed out-"  
"-I told no one else, except the lone Healer, when I dropped his body off that night-"  
"-leaving Voldemort weak enough for you to kill him and to-"  
"-I swore to myself I wouldn't tell anyone else-"  
"-take the credit-"  
"-out of respect for him."  
There was an uneasy pause. His hand went up to rub his scar, but he stopped it in midflight and layed it across the table.  
"That's right." he said. "That's exactly what happened." It was my turn to be astonished of my deductive skills.  
"I just put it together from what I read, and what the Healer said..."  
"So you didn't need me to tell you, did you? All you wanted was confirmation."  
"I guess." I took a large gulp of my coffee and hoped it would dislodge the mass of energy from my stomach.  
"I won't tell anyone." I said.  
Harry did not say another word.  
Another pause -- I stood up, intent on leaving. I was at the door when I turned around and looked at Harry, suddenly realizing something....  
"It was the last thing he ever said, Harry. And because of the effort I saw him take to say it, I think he wanted people to know. I think he finally sickened of his charade and wanted to die a clean man. Whether you choose to tell people or not, I don't care. But I don't think Professor Snape would have told me if he didn't want the truth known."  
I gripped the doorknob.  
"But seeing as I am only a devoted former student, I could not and will not tell the world. It is your choice."  
_Choice_, I think. _What part does choice have in the great scheme of things?_  
"It was nice meeting you, Harry. I'll pay for my half of the room out front."  
With a final nod from Harry, I turned the handle and entered the loud boisterous tavern, payed for my half, and left.  
I suppose with all the tragedy I had suffered over the past few days would warrant therapy. But death is a part of life; they are incorporated in each other's definitions, much like truth is embedded in the essence of deception. But to go to therapy over a death would be like going to therapy for life -- and I thought myself a bit stronger than that.  
I walked down the street, not putting up my umbrella, and tightened my shawl, bracing against the cold wind.

THE END

I don't know what to say...Any parts that made you sick to your stomach or stop for a moment? Or was it a barrel of laughs? Any feedback is appreciated, especially if you find at any point the story becomes too confusing. (Not confusing in general, but so confusing you can't figure out what's happening after a few minutes and a couple of re-reads).

Don't forget to email me at mssnape_34@yahoo.com 

Notes:  
I want to thank Emu who reviewed "A Visit to St. Mungo's" and suggested this plot. I thought "A Visit to St. Mungo's" would be a one-shot. Guess not.

The lines: "the thunder rolls and the lightening strikes" and "as the storm blows on, out of control" are lyrics in Garth Brooks' "The Thunder Rolls." I am not a fan, but I thought the music itself set the tone of the piece very nicely, though the lyrics have nothing to do with my story. And listening to the song repeat as I wrote helped me with some of the more interesting images....

The way Harry and Ellyndia talk at the end (with all the dashes) is an allusion to Samuel Beckett's play _Play_. It has a very unique style, where everyone speaks monotone, and as quickly as possible, cutting each other off. I felt the same feeling of anxiety to get the story out, combined with the inaction of the participants fits nicely with the additional feeling of absurdness to life I wanted to convey.  
I saw _Play_ for the first time on TV: Stage on Screen [Thank you PBS!]. 19 different directors did Beckett's plays and one acts. What attracted me to _Play_ was the guy in the middle, who was- yes - Alan Rickman! I didn't know beforehand, though. So this is also my homage to him- and the absolutely scary (but wonderful) performance he gave in _Play_.  



End file.
